


To Pass The Time

by ever_increasing_circles



Category: British Comedian RPF, Doctor Who, Mock the Week RPF
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-17
Updated: 2010-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ever_increasing_circles/pseuds/ever_increasing_circles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Mark has something to tell Russell, regardless of consequence. Despite the near-inevitable consequence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Pass The Time

**Author's Note:**

> Any similarity between the fictional versions of the people portrayed here and the actual people is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).
> 
> Based on a headcanon that's been building itself for about five years now - naturally Mark Watson is a Timelord! Naturally he regenerates into Chris Addison! Of course! Why are you looking at me like that? Anyway, there's a lot more to this. Hopefully I'll get to writing it all, someday.

When your significant other took you to one side, their hands on your shoulders and a serious expression etched hard(er than usual) into a face that showed concern as much as worry as a daily occurrence, the act alone naturally set wheels turning in your mind. The relationship had been good to this point, so, of course, _here comes the bombshell_. They'd been unfaithful? They'd heard _you'd_ been unfaithful? ( _I fucked your brother._ ) Or a sudden, fatal diagnosis, perhaps? Emergency emigration? Maybe something less tumultuous, but no less difficult. Some matter of the relationship needed to be addressed; one of your habits, some of your habits, _all_ of your habits. Maybe a fetish; maybe a threesome? Russell wasn't entirely sure how far he had Mark pegged as somebody who would have those sorts of interests, but knew equally that sometimes, you could never really know these things until the other person chose to tell you. Sometimes these things took courage, patience, _time_. Was the time now right? Far enough in to feel comfortable, too far in to back out suddenly.

All of these things ran through Russell's mind as Mark stood in front of him, head momentarily bowed, seemingly trying to find the right words. Seconds passed, but each one seemed to stretch and flex into something more, something that teased every worst-case scenario from Russell's thought process, something that set every one of his own concerns jittering. But then Mark raised his head and looked Russell in the eye,

" _You... you watch Doctor Who, right?_ "

This question seemed to feed into absolutely none of those previously-considered worst-case scenarios. Russell couldn't help but let out a laugh at that, despite the fact that Mark's very serious expression did not change in the slightest (and this may have contributed to that fact). He did, and so he replied as such, still not seeing what this had to do with anything at all. That reply seemed to cause Mark to press his lips together momentarily, to nod gently as if confirming something to himself, _as if that confirmed anything_. (Maybe he wanted to go to a convention? Maybe he was shy about that sort of thing, or... something. Did he need help getting an autograph? Russell didn't know what precisely he could do to aid that, but supposed that he could only do his best to try.)

" _Alright, that--... well, I was going to say 'that makes this easier' but I'm not really sure it does make things easier, I suppose it makes it 'more understandable'... perhaps... or maybe it makes it less understandable, I don't know, um--..._ " (He looked away, then once more looked down. Seconds, again, passed. When he next looked up, Russell couldn't help but notice how Mark seemed suddenly _determined_ , and maybe _this is it_ and--)

" _I'm the Doctor._ "

The seconds that passed after that held a decidedly different quality to those that had beforehand. Again, the reflex was to laugh. _Sorry, what?!_... And yet, to that knee-jerk reaction, Mark only repeated himself calmly, quietly. With as much sincerity as he had ever possessed, which suddenly put Russell at something of a loss. Mark just--... _wasn't_ the kind of person to say something like that so seriously, surely? Or, as Russell saw it, the kind of person to say something like that as a joke. Which it most definitely was. Surely?

" _... Wh--... what, you mean--... you've landed the part?! That's--... I didn't even know you wanted to go into that kind of thing, but if you want to, then, then--... that's... that's great! Oh my god, Mark, you--_ "

" _No, no no no-- Russell, wait. No. I mean, I'm the Doctor. I'm a Timelord. ...I'm an alien._ "

Other worst-case scenarios ran through Russell's head, at that. He knew that Mark was quite susceptible to stress, but... what kind of symptom was _this_? A delusion, maybe? Some kind of split personality? People like Mark, basically, did not say things like that seriously. Did not say them expecting them to be taken seriously. Maybe it was some kind of dare? An out-of-season April Fools? They'd known each other for longer than they'd been together and in that time, Russell couldn't think of any particular behaviour that had ever said to him, specifically, _my boyfriend is an alien_. He got nervous, he worried, but he was _human_ \--... wasn't he? Russell didn't know what aliens looked like, if they existed, but was quite sure that they wouldn't look like the comedian Mark Watson.

Russell did a little research on the internet, pulled up some sites about people who felt 'soul-bonded' to things not quite the societal norm - animals, mythical creatures, _fictional characters_. He showed his findings to Mark, who watched with impassive eyes (and another slight nod).

In return, Mark took Russell to the TARDIS and it was at that point, Russell admitted to himself, that all bets were off. Even the BBC just built a set for it, didn't they? The rational part of his mind both couldn't - just _couldn't_ \- believe in any of this, but at the same time, he didn't know how to doubt what was so clearly in front of his own eyes. Was he the one with a problem? Was _he_ the one hallucinating?

" _It'll take time to get used to this,_ " Mark said. " _Don't worry about it, though. I have a lot to spare._ " (And a smile. A _smile_. Not that Russell never saw Mark smile but _that_ time burnt itself indelibly into his memories. He wouldn't forget that. He _couldn't_ forget that.)

There were other worlds and other species, more planets and peoples than Russell had ever thought actually possible. They went forward in time and back in time and, slowly, Russell began to square the fact that _this man is the most prolific Timelord to exist_ alongside the fact that _this man is Mark Watson is my boyfriend_. And it was dangerous sometimes, too; Daleks, Cybermen, _they all existed_. Sometimes he was frightened and sometimes they got hurt, but they always ended up back in the TARDIS, eventually able to laugh at their good fortune at having lived to see another day. It all seemed so unreal it could not possibly be anything other than _completely real_ and Russell made no attempt to hide the fact that he was dearly in love with this new-found lifestyle. And he said this often, which made Mark smile.

(They saw many things in many places, but that was the one thing Russell never tired of.)

****

Telling your significant other something of importance - real, actual importance - was, Mark knew, a fraught business. There never seemed to be a good time for such things - did you tell them on the first day of friendship? At the start of the relationship? Once co-habitation came up? Before the first-year anniversary? Fifth-year anniversary? Before the marriage proposals? Before the wedding?

Never?

Mark knew that it wasn't good to worry, but couldn't help it. Part of him said _you don't owe anybody anything_ but more than that, he'd think _I love Russell, he loves me, and he deserves to know the truth_. And he would also think _I should really know better_ , but he had long come to ignore such things.

It was true, of course. Not just 'should' but _did_ , he _did_ know better and with every passing moment spent in the comfortable confines of 'a relationship', Mark wondered why he was doing this, _again_. Because it had happened so many times before and it would happen so many times again and he knew it and _he knew it_ \--... but Russell had something about him that made Mark wonder if, perhaps, he could dare be a little selfish, this one time. Because he'd had his reasons for keeping quiet, first and foremost being _nobody would believe me, would they?_ and second being _it's not really anybody's business anyway_ , but all in his mind was a deafening silence and a constant reminder of what he'd lost, and he _knew_ that Russell could not (as one person, as a _human_ ) come anywhere near to filling that void, but... but it was _something_. Mark didn't like to think of him simply as 'a distraction', but he would sometimes suppose that closer to the truth than he liked to think. He was in self-imposed exile for reasons he simply could not tell or explain to anybody else, but... that was fine (so he told himself). It was fine. Nobody needed to know. For the sake of his own punishment, nobody could know. To mention it would be to bring it all back, to speak of it would be to rake up all of those memories, memories he had to keep hold of for the sake of emotional testament but memories he sometimes simply couldn't bear--

Russell smiled easily and laughed frequently. That was enough, for the fleeting present moment. Mark stood in front of audiences and made them laugh, thus chasing away the silence once more. There were no longer any Timelords, but there were billions of human beings with such life and such potential and even now, after everything, Mark couldn't help himself but to love them, to want to stay around them, with them, really _with_ them... hadn't he said that time and time before, the greatest adventure that he could never have? Well... there was no responsibility, now. No duty to anything, if he didn't want there to be. He could live as a human as much as he wanted, and there was nobody there to stop him.

It might almost have worked, too. Lying was such a flexible sin, after all. Nobody had to know anything. Russell didn't have to know anything. He didn't have to know anything and they could have just carried on forever, like that, like nothing was strange and nothing was unusual and with every passing moment Mark realised how unbearable that prospect really was. He knew that it wasn't fair, he knew that he was being selfish, but... but he wanted to show Russell, show him _everything_. Go back in time and show him things that humans had never even thought to record in their history books, go forward in time to things they weren't capable of imagining, go to other planets with other species and peoples and colonies and, in the end, Mark couldn't resist the wanderlust. _I've been sulking for too long_ , he'd think.

 _We should get out more._

 _Russell._

 _Where would you like to go?_

Trying to even broach this subject would be difficult, Mark had always known this. At the same time, he couldn't help but feel that Russell was perhaps more receptive to such things than other people might have been...? Mark wasn't sure if it was a kind of _childishness_ as per se, or more--... something more open, more capable of _believing_ than the average adult was usually able to. Where most people would refuse outright, Russell might well have pause to consider. He was optimistic and enthusiastic and perhaps, just _perhaps_ , there was the possibility that he might in fact believe such an outlandish statement. (...And if he didn't? Mark had the proof to back himself up). Indeed, it was mainly a matter of securing open-mindedness until which point as he could bring out the definitive proof, but even then was still the possibility of somebody backing out; a lot of humans seemed quite frightened of things that were different, but Russell did not seem that kind of person. Mark couldn't help but wonder if he was building up his need to have Russell know in his mind, but he couldn't help himself; the more he tried not to think about it, the more the thoughts bred and multiplied through his mind.

( _I want to take you to those places. Show you those things. I want you with me and I want us both together._ )

Russell seemed reluctant to believe at first, but Mark (tried to fight off the crippling self-doubt and) supposed that that was a perfectly normal reaction to being told something like _that_. Of course he'd be sceptical. Of course he'd think Mark had gone mad. Of course he needed a little time by himself to think about what he'd been told, but then Mark grew eversoslightly impatient and arrived outside of Russell's house, TARDIS around the corner. And he'd showed him. And it was like every time before but new again, because it was _Russell_. And Russell found it hard to believe, at first, but seemed to really _want_ to. Mark, naturally, was never going to deny this. Russell wanted proof? More proof? Any proof that he wanted, Mark would give. To the past, to the future, to any given planet, it was all possible.

So many possibilities--!

( _I want to show you everything._ )

With each journey brought new wonder, sometimes brought new dangers. And they survived, but Mark told himself to be careful. To be very careful. Because there had been so many companions before but at the same time, there had been so much loss - those who had died (... been killed), those lost to him, those lost to time, those who simply didn't want the lifestyle anymore. For every good and bad relationship, he was still _here_ and _now_ on the other side of the Time War, alone. Alone to degrees that Russell couldn't know or guess, and which Mark was never going to tell him. That of him being a Timelord, he couldn't keep secret. That of him being the _last_ he could, and would, and did.

They survived and they survived until they reached the point in which they didn't. And Mark survived, because he always did. _Because I always do_ , he bitterly told himself. And he hated himself and hated everything, hated that which had caused it and hated himself, again, for being the root cause in the first place. After all, if Russell had never gone with him in the first place--... if he'd never felt the need - the stupid, _stupid_ need - to tell Russell to begin with--...

For all the timelines he crossed, visited and moved within, you could do nothing about one which had ended. Without the presence of other Timelords, Mark didn't know what the consequences would be of perhaps crossing one's own timeline, trying to change it, try to bring him back--... but some things were simply ingrained within a Timelord, deeper than rules or regulations lay a very basic instinct of what, in a temporal sense, should and should not be; there, in death, lay a _certainty_ that could never be broken. This timeline of this Earth and of this present moment was one that no longer contained Russell Howard, a fact which became a code written into the Earth and wrapped around by time itself. For there to be that space meant that there could be no continuation.

It was at that point that Mark felt, once more, that he should step back and fall away - but where could the exiled exile themselves? Instead, he returned to Earth. He watched the news as it was reported, heard it all, knew everything, said nothing. There were questions, from those who'd known their relationship. That was to be expected. Cold stares from Jon Richardson. He expected that, too. Did Jon suspect? What _did_ he suspect? It was virtually impossible, Mark knew, for him to think anything even remotely near to what the actual truth of the matter was, but... what could he do about it? He had nothing personally against the man, but didn't feel that Jon would be particularly receptive to this brand of truth. Even with proof, would that not simply lead to resentment? And so, Mark never said anything.

Mock the Week was postponed and postponed, as those involved in production tried to work out the proper way to handle a missing panellist. At first, they held out hope of his return; as months passed, this hope diminished. The show did eventually return, but Mark didn't watch it. They asked him to be on it and he thought about refusing, but supposed that another punishment to endure; was it suspicious if he did go on, or suspicious if he didn't? It was hard to get past the edit in the first place, surely nobody would notice if he were quieter than usual. They all knew about him and Russell anyway, would they begrudge him a little silence?

( _It all comes back to silence, in the end._ )

Mark watched the episodes after his own appearance and he supposed that he even enjoyed them, as much as he was able. He would turn the television off afterwards, leaning back in his chair. Tapping out a rhythm on the armrest, then holding his fingers still. The silence. The _silence_.

 _This is how it always ends._

(And yet, it never _ended_.

There lay the true punishment, for the last of the Timelords.)


End file.
